


That One Night

by alyxpoe



Series: The Woman's Tales [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Short Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:47:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Seriously, Holmes, I’ve had it up to here with you and your interfering ways.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	That One Night

“Seriously, Holmes, I’ve had it up to _here_ with you and your interfering ways.” Sergeant Lestrade informs his suspect between gritted teeth, only just stopping himself from yanking the handcuffs upward harder than the situation really calls for. Instead he rests his hand on the nape of the other man’s neck and forces him to lean his forehead against the cinderblock wall. Greg’s rather beat up gold ring barely catches the feeble light from the dying sodium light around the corner from them.

The tall man grunts against the treatment, though, surprisingly, says absolutely nothing. For a moment, Lestrade takes the time to rein in his temper and listens to the sounds in the dank alley that he can make out over the thudding of his own heartbeat. His captive shuffles his feet a bit; Lestrade tightens his hold, strong fingers not quite inflicting pain against the pale skin of the man’s bent neck, palm pressed flat against the not-quite straining muscle and sinew there.

Holmes’ neck is growing warm.

Lestrade relaxes his hold for a second and the man in his clutches turns to gaze at him over his shoulder, his expression a haughty mix of irritation and something Greg never thought he’d see on the face of a Holmes.

Neither of them say anything, mostly because neither of them really know how; they remain mute, also, due to the bouncing shaft of light that has found them at the end of the alley. Behind them a car wheezes to life and backs out of the driveway of one of the shops on the other side of the alleyway.

“Now, you can admit that I was correct in my deductions, Sergeant.” A deep, raspy baritone echoes off the walls.

Lestrade grimaces and yanks on the handcuffs out of frustration at the mad genius who has been referring to himself as a ‘consulting detective.’

“Yeah, yeah, you did.” Lestrade lets his captive go, stepping back out of his arms’ reach and digging in his pocket for his keys. Mycroft turns his back on him and Greg unlocks the cuffs with a click and a snap. He catches them before they hit the ground and stows them back in his coat.

“There, you can’t say I didn’t warn you, Holmes,” Greg growls a bit under his breath as he watches the other man rub his wrists.

“Indeed you did, Sergeant. At least understand my…ways…of checking on my brother have nothing to do with you.” Mycroft arches an auburn eyebrow and does his best to stare down the police officer. His intimidation tactic doesn’t work, however, because Greg is meeting him eye-to-eye, their faces level with one another, neither man bending, both standing ramrod straight.

“Spare me!” Sherlock, the overaged teenager grumbles at the same time Greg says “They do when it is _my_ investigation you are bollixing up.”

Sherlock snorts and waves the torch in his hand in his elder sibling’s face, an irritating tease that says _I told you so_. Mycroft frowns down his nose and tries not to squint against the harsh light.

Sherlock sighs dramatically and does a spin on his heels that is absolutely _not_ a pirouette, the long tails of his coat flying out behind him. He glares at the Sergeant, then at his brother, and storms away from them. Both men watch him strut to the opposite end of the alley, throw his arm up in the air and then watch in amusement as a cab stops for him as if he simply conjured it out of thin air.

“Huh,” Greg mutters. When he looks at Mycroft, he notes the way his face is flushed and his normally perfect hair has flopped over his forehead. He looks roguish, cocky.

And right then it hits the thirty-something Sergeant that maybe putting handcuffs on a man who aspires to be the British government is probably not the most career-building move he could make. Ever since Sherlock started ‘assisting’ him with his cases, Mycroft has been like an overbearing shadow, always popping up at the most inopportune moments and distracting his baby brother, effectively making the closing of the case take even longer.

Somehow, though, Greg is the one feeling like he’s been taught a lesson tonight, instead of the other way around. He will not apologize, however, and the two men remain where they stand, measuring each other up and squaring off. The cold-warm-gold glint in Mycroft’s icy blue eyes makes Lestrade think that possibly Mycroft is already immersed in things that he’d rather not know about.

In those few seconds, Greg has no doubt that the younger man could take him down and make him beg for mercy.

He’s not entirely sure exactly how he means that…at all.

Finally, Mycroft turns away with a sharp head nod.

Lestrade is still unsure—what did that mean exactly?

*

Dressed in a black, skin-tight catsuit and crouched on the roof of the shop above Mycroft’s head, Irene Adler shakes her head and smiles wickedly into the darkness. Sherlock seems to be doing well enough for himself, so she decides it is time to move on before Mycroft catches wind of what she’s been doing.

With a twist of her lips, she clambers down the fire escape and disappears into the night, satisfied with a self-appointed job well done.

*

After that night, Mycroft only shows up on crime scenes after the fact and generally stays in or next to one of his cars. DI Lestrade will discuss this with one Doctor John Watson in a bustling pub one night and John will smile and shake his head, then chug down his pint when he catches sight of a certain tall detective standing in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets, looking over the heads of everyone else and, upon spotting his partner, smiling at him, mad hair glossy in the backlight from the street.

Greg will clink his half-full pint glass against John’s empty one. John will grace him with a crooked grin, toss some bills on the table and rush away at the unspoken call of the World’s Only Consulting Detective, pulling on his leather donkey jacket in an effort to hide the gun he doesn’t think Greg knows is there.

Greg will then smile at himself and think about how much he thoroughly enjoys it when Mycroft lets him take him against the wall, Mycroft’s hands pulled back just tightly enough and gripped in Greg’s. It took them a long time to get to where they are now, but in the end the struggle was worth what they share. He stands up, patting his pockets and tosses a couple more bills to the table, then sighs in exasperation, hand frozen on the inside pocket of his jacket when he realizes his badge is gone…again.


End file.
